Documentation

I started shooting whitewater sports in 2010, documenting newly acquainted friends paddling the Payette River. I saw them swim, laugh, and learn all from the shore where I stood. Three years later, I myself started to paddle and engage in learning the art of kayaking. Then it became clear; the people I was paddling with influenced me. I starting learning to get over fears, observe nature, and to embrace moments. Moments, like waves, ebb and flow- high and low. Moments which teach us about each other, our own self, and the world of which we are all a part. I have seen moments of triumph, styling rapids and overcoming mental battles. I have seen moments of defeat, which does not halt the mind or body for long, it’s in a sense motivation. In contrast, I’ve seen bliss, simply being able to enjoy a run for what it is. I have seen perseverance; hiking through bush to paddle a waterfall with no telling if it was good to run. I have seen reverence and reflection: elders passing on patience and knowledge to benefit the foundation of the next river experience. I have observed new friendships being born, a web that continues to grow. I have witnessed the drive within; the want to explore and experience places new and old with the people you trust. I have documented the prideful energy this small paddling community has for being some of the world’s best travelers and athletes. There’s a magic withheld in the cracks and canyons of the world. Bonds form and nature prevails as the be-all end-all drive to live and learn. It’s hard to beat the moments of experiencing a river and the people who come along with it. – John Webster is an Idaho-based adventure photographer and videographer. You can follow his travels and work @johnjwebster and the Webster Media House.

The Trail to Kazbegi

What happens when four like-minded adventurers head into one of the world’s wildest mountain ranges with nothing but their mountain bikes and enough food to survive for 10 days? What doesn’t happen? Terrifying lightning storms. Raging-river crossings. Snow-covered glacial pass traverses. Mind-melting descents. Constant fights with vicious dogs. Tense encounters with over-zealous border-patrol guards. All of the above were just another day following “The Trail to Kazbegi,” a self-supported mountain-bike mission through the highest reaches of the Caucasus Mountains in the former Soviet Republic of Georgia. Our four-man team—adventure filmmaker Joey Schusler, Bike Magazine editor Brice Minnigh, photographer Ross Measures, and mountain man Sam Seward—spent half of June 2015 exploring the crown jewels of the Georgian High Caucasus on a feature assignment for Bike. Along the way, our crew overcame countless obstacles and experienced some of the most spectacular scenery and trails they had ever encountered. They also were treated to the unparalleled hospitality of the Georgian people and the benign indifference of the elements on their quest to reach the magnificent Mount Kazbek. In the process, they cemented lasting friendships and proved, yet again, that life is simply better outdoors. – Joey Schusler is a Colorado-based photographer and filmmaker who splits his time between mountain biking and skiing when not in the editing booth. For an expanded, multimedia experience of this trip, check out the complete Bike Magazine feature and/or the accompanied short film, The Trail To Kazbegi.

The Waterfall

Over the years, I’ve learned that the best experiences come from entering situations with as little expectation as possible. If you open yourself up to an option, idea or opportunity, often you will emerge transformed, changed by the experience which has swept you away. But when sliding into a tributary of a stream titled the Unknown River, it’s hard to control the excitement of entering the unknown. As our small tributary dumped our team out into the current of the Unknown River proper, an exploding plume of mist burst upwards, breaking the soft mist of the clouds which almost constantly fall onto the land and waters of Labrador. Horizonlines, as they are called within the river-running community, are a sure sign of excitement when looking downstream on any body of water. The fall of water off a ledge of any height is exactly the sort of river feature we had traveled to Labrador to experience, however the size of this plume exploding into the air, suggested it might be too high to experience from within our small plastic kayaks. The team has a moment of indecision, the vegetation on the bank of the river was uninviting, with densely packed and thorn-covered vines guarding what appeared to otherwise be an enchanting forest. Half the team went towards the thorns, half went to opposite bank, and I continued downstream, hypnotized by the mammoth horizonline and thundering roar of what could only be assumed to be a large feature at this point. . What lay downstream creating that roar and explosion of water over the horizonline? Which side of the river would be best to have a look at whatever it was? If we couldn’t go over it in our kayaks, how would we get around it, and how long would it take? We only had enough food packed within our kayaks for a few days. If we spent an entire day trying to get around this one particular spot on the river, would the rest of the river grant us safe passage, or would it too be filled with similarly dangerous obstacles, forcing us to make slower progress with our heavy boats on our shoulders? It was these very questions that led us to Labrador. Nothing was known. Nothing could be predicted. As I continued walking through this forest dreamscape on my own, I slowly began to hear the roar of the river again. A little further and the moss began to get deeper. So deep in fact that it felt like I was trudging through the fresh snow of a blizzard without snowshoes. Each step sinking up to my knees. Just as my body began sweating inside my well-insulated drysuit to the point that it felt like a sauna, through a small window in the trees to my left appeared the sight of all that noise. A waterfall. Pouring over a cliff with the intensity of a landslide, and the height of a small skyscraper. I stood, panting, exhausted, incredulous, and in awe.

The Fisherman

The fisherman, dressed in rubber waters with a collared shirt rolled up to the elbows, stood bent over in the arctic waters of the North West River. This is the literal end of the road on the eastern seaboard of North America, and the scene was about exactly what you’d expect. A soft rain fell in about 45 degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures, signifying a great day for outdoor activity in Labrador. The fisherman had a halo of bloody water floating around his ankles as he skillfully dissected one of the larger fish I’d ever seen in my life. We had spent the better part of the previous day asking every boat owner in town if we could get picked up at the mouth of the Cape Caribou River in about 3-4 days, so as I approached the man, I tried to play it cool. I didn’t want to seem too desperate. We wanted to paddle this unknown stretch of river, without battling coastal headwinds for the 20-30+ miles back to town. “Wow, heck of a catch” I said as calmly and conversational as possible. “Yeah, not too bad.” he said in the unassuming and understated manner you come to expect from some of the toughest cultures left in our growingly “squishy” global culture. “What kind of fish is that?” I asked, still perplexed by its behemoth size. “Oh mate, this is a baby seal. Where you from?” I’d blown my cover, and my jaw dropped. Before I knew it, I got a history lesson in the history of hunting seals, the placement of an embargo, and a lecture on a rather predictable opinion of the organization Greenpeace. We’d found our man.

Origins

Sometimes, when I’m procrastinating at work or have some free time and am tired of watching kayaking videos online, I like to scheme up ways to actually go kayaking. A few years ago, my girlfriend Maeve and I took a road trip around eastern Canada. While there, I saw a picture of a huge glacial valley in one of Canada’s newest national parks up in Nunavuk and thought there must be unexplored whitewater up there. When I got home, I started looking around Nunavuk and Baffin Island for good looking rivers on Google Earth. Most of the rivers were either flat or vertical and not much in-between, and I quickly realized we could go anywhere on earth for less than it would cost to get up there. I started looking a bit farther south. I had seen a picture of Churchill Falls in an old American Whitewater Journal and figured where there are giant waterfalls, there must be whitewater, so I started looking into the area. I was in search for new fly-in multi-day river trips like those which have gained popularity in Quebec; rivers such as the Romaine or the Petite Mecitna. Instead, I ended up finding a corridor along the Churchill River where a number of rivers and creeks fall off a lake-y plateau into the Churchill River about 1,500 feet below. Conveniently, the only road in the entire province passed either over or nearby most of these tributaries, and there conveniently happened to be an online stream gauge for the Pinus River nearby. This gauge allowed me to guesstimate early summer as the time with flows that seemed about right for that sized river. I was guessing around 30 cms on that river would be good. This past spring, the stars aligned and I found four suckers willing to drive 48 hours off into the unknown, in some part of Canada no one has ever heard of.

Introduction

There are few places left in the world which are truly wild. Where vast expanses of unexplored land lay wild, still occupied and ruled by the flora and fauna that call it home. When we think of these sorts of lands, these far-off corners of our uber-connected modern world, our minds typically drift to mythical mountain ranges, remote desert oasis, deep gorges, and canyons tucked away in the world’s largest mountains. You don’t usually think of anywhere in eastern North America. But if you start driving north, up through the United States and into Canada…up past Quebec City and take a ferry to a far corner of the continent where paved roads are still just beginning to make an appearance. If you keep driving, you will eventually reach the end of the road. At this stage, you would be in Labrador. The region’s vast wilderness and plentiful caribou, deer, and small game populations, along with an abundance of coastal wildlife such as seal, whale, walrus, and fish were the perfect environment for the indigenous peoples of the Innu and Inuit. Basque whalers were next to follow, and started the influx of western cultures. Moravian missionaries began to set up communities along the inhospitable coastline of the region, establishing the region enough for British fishermen to arrive. Today, the region’s natural resources are still the main draw for the few workers of the region (in 2015, Labrador’s unemployment rate was over double the Canadian average). From the iron-ore mines of the interior, to the rapidly expanding production of hydroelectric power harnessed from the Churchill River, it would seem that the fruits of nature are the only thing keeping Labrador’s economic heartbeat alive. Those same natural resources that some see in the name of economic benefit are also what prompted a group of five kayakers to make the drive north to this wildly untouched wilderness, in search of unexplored rivers.

Chin Deep in Japan

Japan is every skier’s dream. From waking each morning to find that the mountains have been completely refreshed by constant storms blowing in from Siberia, to experiencing a level of hospitality that makes you want to be a better person. The Land of the Rising Sun is a skier’s paradise. On our first trip to Hokkaido a couple years ago, we learned that the Japanese do après a little differently. Most nights, you could hear crickets at even the biggest ski areas after a day in the mountains. Any lively izakaya (small Japanese bar) is most likely packed with Aussies, well into their pints and raucous conversation. If you look around the bar, you won’t see many locals. They’re all getting their soak on, chin deep in their favorite onsen. The onsen of Japan are more of a public bath house, or an indoor hot pool buried deep in a lodge or hotel. There are some outdoor onsen (roten-buro) and even what they call ‘wild’ onsen, which are more like the rock-enclosed pools we’re used to finding in the wilds of the American West. Different onsen are known for a variety of healing properties, taking care of aches, pains, and infertility. –

Matt & Agnes Hage make their home in Anchorage, Alaska and shoot pictures for a variety of outdoor brands world-wide. They look for any excuse to work hot springs and cold beer into their assignments. Check them out at www.hagephoto.com

Art as a Lens

My work stems mainly from the beauty and detail found in nature, which is my greatest joy and inspiration. Having grown up in Utah, I was exposed early and often to four distinct seasons, and a myriad of vastly different landscapes from alpine lakes, to desert expanses, to alien boulder fields and salt flats. The outdoors play a constant and tugging role in my life, and consequently, the content of my work has a focus on botany, wildlife, and landscape. Natural elements intrigue and call out to me. Longing to live outside as much as possible, I have done my best to arrange my life to allow for this. Recently, I began painting with watercolors directly onto maps. This has become an expanding part of my portfolio, as my mind rarely deviates from the subject of travel. The road is where I feel most at home. Some key tools for the outdoor lifestyle, such as headlamps and tents, have lately edged their way in between all the birds, beasts, and flowers. I aim for my imagery to also speak of spirit and dreams, whether personal or collective in the realm of myth, folklore, philosophy, psychology, and mysticism. I use art as a lens through which to explore my varied interests, and I am always working to develop a visual language that translates what I learn onto paper. – Hallie Rose Taylor is an Austin, TX based artist working mainly in watercolor, gouache, and ink. For more of her work, check out hallierosetaylor.com.

Wizards Eye

The Red Island of Madagascar materializes out of a clear blue horizon, steadily growing into existence. Its silhouette framed against a night sky as a full moon rises over the island. The ocean, now sheltered by the jutting mass of land, has gone from an onslaught of white capping waves to a glasslike plane. The Wizard’s Eye breaks free, running with the current pushing 8 knots and hurtling us towards another great adventure. I have crossed thousands of miles of ocean and half the planet to finally arrive at a place I have been before; a place with rivers raging from the mountains, a place still rich with exploration, rawness, realness, a place of thick African nights, wood smoke, and dense forests – Madagascar. My dream is being realized as a team of friends – Benjamin Hjort, Isaac Levinson, Taylor Smallwood – and I sail into Africa. The Wizard’s Eye Expedition is a test for me. The proving grounds of my theory that for any dream to come into existence simply requires one ingredient: action. Throughout my life, I have come against obstacles, created challenges, staged expeditions, and generally have strived to open my mind to all kinds of dreams. I’ve worked hard to bring everything I dream to reality, accomplishing this to a large extent. Not by fortune, but by force of will. Finally, after paddling the tallest waterfall attempted, I had climbed my personal mountain. I accomplished my childhood dream, not of the world record descent, but allowing myself the opportunity to pursue my dream of living life one river to the next. I had succeeded. My dream had become reality and was a dream no longer. I began asking myself questions: What now? What next? What is it that I truly desire? This of course led to the question: What is the ultimate adventure? What is an expedition so wild that it will bring me to the very edge of my ability? The answer I found was to sail the planet, seeking out and exploring every land I encounter by means of adventure sport, diversifying my experiences and pushing myself far away from my comfort zone. My journey would stage expeditions big and small and create a medium for continuous documentation and storytelling. With a boat, I knew I would have the ability to put at my disposal an array of tools by which to explore, document, and attempt the largest scale adventure sport expedition I could imagine. However, dreaming is just the beginning. Then stems a journey to find the path, which coalesces imagination into existence. – Tyler Bradt holds the current world record for tallest waterfall ever descended in a kayak. For more on his Wizards Eye Expedition, visit wizardseye.tv/. Benjamin Hjort is a Norwegian adventure photographer who has traveled the globe in search of powder and whitewater. For more of his images check out hjortmedia.com/.

A Year in the Wilderness

Sometimes, a place becomes a part of you. For me, that process began more than 20 years ago as a 7th grader, gazing across the glassy surface of a wilderness lake, listening to the haunting call of a loon on my first trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. I felt like we had paddled to the end of the earth on Alton Lake. Now, after years spent exploring the intricate maze of lakes and rivers that form it, this million-acre wilderness feels like home. My wife and I have been introducing people to this place for more than a decade. Plying its waters by canoe in the summer, and harnessing sled dogs or clipping into cross country skis once it’s blanketed in snow. The Wilderness continues to teach us, and over time, our lives have become more deeply entwined with the Wilderness. Our way of life is  deeply rooted in this place. Several years ago, we heard rumblings about a sulfide-ore copper mine that was being proposed along the southern edge of our nation’s most popular Wilderness. The more we learned, the more concerned we became. Pollution from the mines would flow directly into the Wilderness and would turn the edge of it into a vast industrial mining zone. We have come to realize that blisters and cold fingers are not the only price we must pay for the lifetime of knowledge and memories we’ve gleaned from the wild. Generations before us have fought to protect our public lands, and we are benefiting from the fruit of all their efforts. Experiencing the outdoors is not enough; we must speak loudly for quiet places like the Boundary Waters so that they will be preserved for future generations, and we must introduce new people of all ages and walks of life to the forests, lakes, rivers, and mountains so that they will hear the singing Wilderness and continue to amplify its call. My wife and I have spent the last 118 days bearing witness to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. It was -26F when we woke up in our tent this morning, and we are almost a third of the way through our year in the Wilderness. – You can learn more Dave and Amy Freeman’s journey and follow along at www.wildernessclassroom.com and www.savetheBoundaryWaters.org/WildernessYear. To follow their social handles, check out @freemanexplore and @savetheBWCA.